


Never In Life

by latin_cat



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-05-30
Packaged: 2017-11-06 08:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latin_cat/pseuds/latin_cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mysterious plague causes particular and personal problems for Lord Wellington.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The World Turned Upside Down](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/2268) by astolat. 



> Prompt: _"The lost Sharpe stories: 6. Changes for Sharpe"._ Based on the concept of a genderswap virus ravaging Napoleonic Europe.

The last thing Lord Wellington remembered clearly before the delirium of the fever had set in was collapsing in a spasm of pain, falling to the dusty ground as his Staff officers flocked to his aid; far too late, though. Far too late.

Information about the Epidemic had reached the Allied army in fragments; some were of the opinion that it was a punishment from Heaven meted out upon the Godless French, others that it affected everyone who touched a corpse, another school of opinion stated that it was carried on the air – but all agreed that it could kill, and already the north and east of the Continent had suffered heavily, the invading French army included.

He and Colonel Fletcher had discovered the bodies on a reconnaissance trip along the road north, endeavouring to glean some news regarding the French position. They had come across a small village by a river, apparently deserted. On closer inspection they had found seven bodies; three men, two women (Or so they thought. It was difficult to tell), and two children. The rest of the population seemed to have fled. The two officers had been careful, of course, not to touch the bodies and to cover their noses and mouths with their handkerchiefs, yet it had been in vain; Fletcher was dead, having succumbed two days before Wellington, and for nearly a fortnight the Commander-in-Chief’s life had hung by a thread.

Now Wellington woke to find himself lying in bed, swathed in blankets in what he recognised despite the dim light as his room in the army’s current Headquarters – an old townhouse which judging by the general state of neglect had seen better days. The fog of confusion had gone from his mind, though he felt exhausted; weak as a kitten and uncomfortable from being drenched with sweat and… uncomfortable in other ways too. He shivered. Something was wrong with his body; it did not feel quite as he remembered it had before. Feebly he called out, his throat dry and his voice hoarse, hoping that somewhere nearby there might be someone who would hear him. A scraping of chair legs and hurried footsteps indicated that someone had indeed heard, and seconds later the tired, pale face of a young officer appeared in his field of vision.

“My lord? Are you awake, my lord?”

“I…” Wellington squinted up at the young man, but he did not recognise him. “You are not one of my Staff.”

“No, my lord, you do not know me. Captain William Saxlingham, seconded to General Hill’s Staff. I will fetch Dr. McGrigor immediately.”

“No please, wait!” Wellington caught hold of the captain’s sleeve, stopping him from rushing out of the door. “Please. I must know. Is it…? Am I…?” He found it hard to ask the question, but he swallowed, telling himself to have courage. “Am I no longer as I was?”

Captain Saxlingham hesitated, the expression on his face utterly wretched.

“I am sorry, my lord,” he said quietly, his voice reduced to barely a whisper. “But it is so.”

Letting go of Saxlingham’s sleeve, Wellington steeled himself and then looked down at his chest. There, beneath the sweat-drenched material of his nightshirt, he could clearly perceive the outline of a pair of firm, female breasts.

In that moment the general's composure deserted him, and he screamed.


	2. Chapter 2

“So what’s going to happen to old Nosey?”

Sharpe shrugged. He had been dwelling on this question himself, very much troubled. News was pouring in from the east of crushing defeats suffered by the Austrians and Prussians against the French, having foolishly weakened their own armies by ejecting all of their soldiers who were no longer male. Bonaparte had not been so remiss, and his string of new victories were the most eloquent of warnings to the Allied forces in the Peninsula.

“I don’t know, Pat.” Sharpe sighed, shaking his head. “They can’t remove him; not with half the world affected! Look what Boney’s done with his lot. They’d be fools to get rid of him… or any of us for that matter.”

“There’s no getting rid of you, sir,” Harper said, smiling gratefully at Ramona as she finished pinning his jacket. She’d had to insert two whole extra panel’s worth of material to accommodate the sergeant’s rather impressively proportioned bosom. “You, Perkins, Hagman and Miss Teresa are near enough the only real men among us now.”

It was true. Very few of the Light Company of the South Essex had remained unaffected by the plague, and from what remained of Sharpe’s surviving band of Rifles only himself, Hagman, Perkins and Cooper remained as men – though they had also gained several new recruits from amongst the camp followers, all of whom seasoned campaigners and who would only need a few days intensive drilling to bring them up to scratch.

And then there was Commandant Moreño. Sharpe had always known that Teresa’s constant wish was that she had been born a man, and likewise he had known her to possess a strength of spirit which put many men to shame. Now Teresa Moreño had his freedom – true freedom – and oddly Sharpe found that it did not pain him as much as he thought it would. There was regret of course, fond memories they would always share, a mutual respect and lasting friendship, promises of aid in this continuing war; but beyond that there was nothing to be said, no more to do.

“But they can’t get rid of him,” Sharpe stated bluntly, returning to the original subject of their conversation. “They can’t. They’d be idiots.”

Harper did not look convinced.

“You’ve got to admit, sir,” he said doubtfully. “They’ve given him some damn eejit orders in the past.”

***

“To become Bonaparte’s bedfellow.” Wellington dropped the missive onto the desk, disgust clear on his face. “I can think of no worse fate to befall anyone!”

“The Tsar had no choice.”

“He had plenty of choice,” Wellington growled. “Showing a bit of backbone for one would have been a good start! Instead he simply rolls over and…” The general stopped himself, aware he was being unnecessarily crass, sighed and shook his head. “God, Hogan, it’s all such a mess!”

More than you imagine, Hogan thought grimly, but said nothing. It was a month since the last cases of the plague in the army had recovered or perished, and slowly communications were starting to flow to and from England once more. Some of the news from home was reassuring, such as the extending of the franchise to ladies of property and the granting of equal inheritance rights to sons and daughters; an understandable change, as half the nation’s peers had been affected through their heirs, if not themselves. Nor would any person that currently held rank or position in His Majesty’s services or government be relieved of their responsibilities due to their change in sex. This had come as an enormous relief to many of those in the Peninsular army, Lord Wellington included – yet Hogan knew that the chief’s relief would be short-lived. There had been rumblings in Horse Guards, of which Hogan had received warning from Henry and the Marquis Wellesley, and there was a storm headed Wellington’s way of catastrophic proportions if the matter was not handled correctly.

Therefore the major had gone to deliver his warning to the general along with this news of the Tsar - and to hopefully help solve the problem before the storm hit. Hogan, however, always favoured the oblique method of attack, and so he said; “I gather though, sir, from Scovell that there have been… communications directed to yourself from Bonaparte’s marshals?”

“I wondered how long it would be before you mentioned those,” Wellington said bitterly, as yet unaware of the deeper implications of the question. He picked up a small pile of letters and held them out to the major. “Go on, I know you are dying to read them.”

Hogan did so, and Wellington sat back. After a few minutes of silence, punctuated only by the odd rustle of paper and the occasional involuntary exclamation from the major, Hogan finally said; “At least Massena sent flowers.”

“I sent them back,” Wellington said shortly. “Along with a note detailing where he could put them. I ask you, Hogan, how can they seriously think that I would– that I would ever, just because of this? It is my body only, not my mind that has changed!”

“I am afraid it is not only the likes of Massena and Ney you have to worry about, my lord,” Hogan said, cautiously. Wellington’s gaze snapped up, for the first time catching the note of worry in the major’s voice, and fixed him with an intense glare.

“What do you mean?”

Hogan steeled himself. He had been dreading this moment, knowing just how unwelcome the news would be. In his mind he could hear the doom-laden rumbling of thunderclouds.

“I am afraid Horse Guards has also heard of the particular attentions you are receiving from the enemy,” Hogan continued carefully. “Seeing as your divorce from the Viscountess means you are no longer obligated, and with the Tsar’s example before us, they are naturally concerned that you might… be open to attack.”

Hogan let the sentence hang, as he could see he need not elaborate further. Lord Wellington had gone white with shock.

“They think…?” The general’s voice trembled with barely suppressed rage. “They honestly think…?”

“As I said, sir, with the example of the Tsar before us they are concerned that you are vulnerable in a fashion that you would not be were you still married.”

“But this is sheer lunacy! I would not spread my legs for any of those bastards!”

“Not in their minds.”

“Why have I not heard anything of this?” Wellington demanded.

“Horse Guards is at this moment readying a communication on the matter,” Hogan said bluntly. “I can only thank your brother Henry and the Marquis for warning me, they thinking it best you should know what was about to happen. Several back at home argued strongly in your favour, I gather, but there are those on high who are seriously questioning whether the army is safe in your hands, my lord.”

Wellington sank back down into his chair, utterly defeated.

“Dear God, Hogan,” he murmured, completely wretched. “What am I to do?”

“Marry, my lord.”

“Marry?”

“Horse Guards believes once it is known you have entered a state of matrimony again any further advances of this nature will cease,” Hogan explained slowly. “Therefore the danger to the army will be over.”

“So you are saying that in order to keep my command I must remarry?”

“That is size of it, my lord, yes.”

Wellington sank back in his chair, wiping a shaking hand across his forehead.

“So I must whore myself for my country,” he whispered, briefly closing his eyes against the thought. “Dear God, it does not bear thinking of... yet it most be done. But who?”

Hogan shrugged, wretched now that he had delivered his bombshell.

“On that I could never advise, my lord. No doubt there will be many of good birth, of independent means amongst the Staff who would offer themselves in a trice –”

“I will not have them use me!” Wellington snapped. He could not stand the thought of becoming submissive to any of his Staff, thought of as little more than a means to promotion and greater social standing. No, that would not do at all. He needed someone who would be happy to be a wife; to let him carry on as he was now, to accept him as the superior and would not disrupt the chain of command. Someone he knew would obey him without question and never seek to gain any influence over him or from him whatsoever... The answer, when he reached it, he supposed should have been obvious from the start. There was only ever one real option.

“Send for Captain Sharpe,” he said quietly. Hogan nearly choked, he in turn going white with shock.

“Sharpe?” he exclaimed. “Surely not, my lord! You cannot possibly–”

“I said send for him, Hogan,” Wellington said icily. “And once he is here you may have our engagement announced. The date of the wedding shall be set for two weeks’ time.”

“But shouldn’t you wait for Sharpe’s answer?” Hogan persisted, despite the dangerous glint in the general’s eyes. “What if he refuses? I mean, I’m sure he would be flattered, but– Are you certain there is no one else?”

“There is no one else,” Wellington said, rising from his chair. “And he will not refuse. Sharpe will do anything for me, Hogan; he knows it and I know it. He saved my life in India, he brought me the gold, he destroyed Almeida for me...”

Here the general paused, taking in a steadying breath.

“...and he will marry me, if I ask it of him.”


End file.
